


lisztomania

by somethingdifferent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, F/M, even though that is barely related to this whole deal tbh, here it is!!! the mozart in the jungle au no one asked for!!!, whatever! who cares! not me!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6040852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdifferent/pseuds/somethingdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>People can use a lot of words to describe him, have run the gamut of words already, but unthinking is not one of them.</em> So maybe sleeping with one of the musicians wasn't the best idea he's ever had.</p><p>[petyr/sansa; classical musicians au]</p>
            </blockquote>





	lisztomania

_ There's no you. No me. We are different harmonic strings of the same vocal chord. _

** Mozart in the Jungle **

 

_ To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn't. It should be. _

** Richard Siken **

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**1.**

He's always had a thing for violinists, which is what he's telling himself when he kisses her. Violinists, girls with red hair, people with studio apartments (so what if he lives in a penthouse in midtown? He can appreciate how the other half lives, as long as the other half can remain beautiful and well-dressed), and people who still buy record players and records and put on Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake.

It doesn't mean he's going soft, he tells himself when his tongue moves into her mouth. Hand on her back, fingers tugging the hem of her blouse from her modest pencil skirt, it doesn't mean anything at all.

He shouldn't have had that last glass of whiskey - it was a party, a celebration of their triumphant opening night, and he had had too much to drink so the girl had offered to let him "crash" - her words - at her apartment because he couldn't conjure up his address for the cab driver because of that last glass of whiskey.

And Sansa smiling gently and brilliantly and looking nearly sober even though he'd seen her down at least four shots, but maybe she was just one of those people who could disguise it better than others, and saying, "I'm a few blocks away, you can just crash with me for the night, maestro."

And him mumbling something like, "Call me Petyr."

 

 

 

 

 **2.**  

He should have been more careful.

It's too late now, he thinks when he finally gets the damn blouse over her head.

She teeters in his arms, swaying, and the music stops abruptly when she lifts the needle from the record.

"Turn it back on," he mutters, spinning her so that she's facing the machine. She lifts the arm of the player, carefully sets the needle back at the beginning. The back of her neck is warm under his mouth, and he can feels the vibrations when she laughs, high and anxious. He can hear it, her nerves, he has an ear for sound. Every kind of it.

He turns her around and kisses her again.

 

 

 

 

**3.**

It should have gone no further than the auditions. He saw the hair, he heard the last name, and then the first. Cat's daughter, the older one pursuing a hopelessly competitive field that's driving her father up a wall and costing him too many months worth of  _New York Fucking City_ rent.

He waited, nearly breathless, after she heard his name, wondering if she would know him in return and - no, there was nothing, Cat must never have mentioned him, and his hands tighten into fists momentarily before he catches himself - she only nodded in acknowledgement and called him "maestro" and began to play.

If he's being entirely honest with himself, he had heard better. Perhaps not in the other violinists on stage that day, but around the world, in other symphonies with better talent and more money to spare for the acquisition and maintenance of that talent.

So he had Ros complete the necessary paperwork and hire her as the alternate violinist, the temporary replacement for the woman on maternity leave, and he told himself he made the best and only choice he had available to him. The smart choice.

Besides, he figured, at this point in his life and career, he can afford to be self-indulgent.

 

 

 

 

**4.**

She doesn't seem to know what to do with her hands when he walks her to the bed, which is a mattress on the ground in the corner that will definitely do a number on his back, so he pulls one to the zipper of his slacks. Some girls need to be told what to do, and she seems less experienced than most he's had.

Her fingers are clumsy with his belt and the zipper, shaking, her arms beginning to break into goose bumps. Pretty, nervous, innocent young thing - everything he didn't know he liked until it was presented to him in black fabric and white lace.

He looks at her, runs his thumb over her bra until he feels her nipples begin to harden. He smiles at her, and doesn't know how it looks until her movements falter.

"What?" she asks.

He blinks, the expression of open hunger on his face vanishing instantly. Sansa nearly takes a step back, her blue eyes wide and uncertain.

"Nothing," he tells her simply, before grabbing her at the waist, maneuvering her to lie down on the mattress, crawling above her, his hands skimming up her bare sides, her breath catching, her eyes fluttering shut, his hands pulling the last remnants of her clothing from her pale skin, his mouth opening, saying again, "nothing," saying, "nothing."

 

 

 

 

**5.**

It had been too long since he'd really wanted anything.

There is, to put it simply, the theory of desire and the reality of it, the concrete, tangible reality of wanting. He knew well how to abstract want, how to channel his desires into things easily lusted over: money, clothing, luxury suites, instruments, sheet music, influence, power - the last most of all. Wanting people, he had found, had done nothing for him, yet it had (still has, still has even now) the capacity to ruin everything he worked toward.

He wanted her, and in wanting her hated her, and in hating her hated himself for not doing a good enough job of it. For it not stopping him.

It sure as hell isn't stopping him now.

 

 

 

 

**6.**

"Have you done this before?" he hears himself ask her as he rolls the condom on. He could be sober now, not enough to pass a breathalyzer exam, but enough that is voice is clearer, sharper. He has, he knows, a very small window of time left before his mind catches up with the rest of him and realizes this is one of the worse ideas he's had.

"Done what?" How she can sound so put together when he's on top of her is astounding, to say the least. "Slept with my conductor? No."

"Fucked anyone, I mean." He tells himself he's giving himself an out, an escape route if it turns out she's a virgin (why would she be, she's of age and gorgeous and certainly she dated Cersei-from-the-board's son, the Giant Fucking Mistake with a trust fund the size of Alaska) but even in this state he knows that that particular detail wouldn't deter him. He's not that good of a person. He's not that good of an anything, really.

"Yes." She doesn't elaborate, and he's not in any condition to know whether or not she's lying. He wraps his fingers around the back of her knee, lifting her leg and pushing into her slowly.

He'll ask again in the morning.

 

 

 

 

**7.**

At their first rehearsal she had performed Liszt flawlessly, better than her audition, better than several of the violinists with proper chairs, certainly better than the woman she was filling in for. Petyr found himself thinking of how he could get her a permanent position in the symphony before the end of the first movement; by the beginning of the third, he had a dozen idle thoughts about the logistics of doing this, only three of them involving illegal activity.

He would be doing her a favor, hiring her full-time. He'd be doing the orchestra a favor, making it more cohesive, more finely tuned.

He refused to think about his own reasons for it; those could be examined some other time, or not at all as far as he was concerned.

Of course he wanted her - it isn't so uncommon for men his age to start lusting after nubile young women, and the red hair really is a draw, and she's talented, yes, talent is always appealing, and the eyes, and the mouth, and the voice, and the way she tucks her violin under her chin and her bow is always relaxed until the very moment it touches the strings, and saying to him _maestro, how are you today_ , smiling, always interested, always interesting in her conversations between movements, when the orchestra is allotted their fifteen minute break until she lifts her violin again and he raises his arms at the front of the stage, careful to keep his eyes trained away from her because everyone, _everyone_ is watching, waiting for him to make the slightest mistake -

Of course he wanted her. How could he not?

 

 

 

 

**8.**

He keeps talking as he moves around her, inside of her, as she moves against him. His mouth is disconnected from his brain, he's just rattling off words and phrases as they occur to him, unthinking, and people can use a lot of words to describe him, have run the gamut of words already, but _unthinking_ is not one of them.

He hears himself say her name, and  _fuck_ , and _god_ , and  _you're so tight_ , and  _I wanted this I wanted you_ , and (worst of all)  _you're so beautiful_ , and her voice interrupts the litany when she says, "Petyr, shut the fuck up."

The record ended ages ago, and the only sounds are the creak of the mattress on the floor, their bodies moving together and apart and together again, their breathing, his voice still saying her name, Sansa saying nothing else, barely even making any noise - until with a shudder she moans and comes and closes her eyes.

 

 

 

 

**9.**

When he was younger and slightly more foolish, slightly more reckless, he had it in his head that if he made something good of himself, something really grand, then no one could take that away from him and he would be satisfied. Not happy. Even then, that was never an option.

But consumption, like all things, is not inherently sating, and the more he consumed the less he felt, and the more it took to satisfy him.

The desire, which never really went away, waited, coiled deep and ready to spring upward and snap its jaws around his throat like a snake.

 

 

 

 

**10.**

He falls asleep only after she does, breathing slow and even on the other side of the mattress, not touching him anywhere, her body entirely her own. He's exhausted, physically and mentally, and he's very close to sober now and all too aware of the magnitude to which he just fucked up (i.e., profoundly).

His hand lifts as if he might do something, as if he's readying himself for a performance, but he lets it fall again.

The room seeming quieter, somehow, after the music.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
